


Milagros Pequeños (Small Miracles)

by thebolderthing (Officialacejolras)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Barista Grantaire, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Growth, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Recovery, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, lawyer Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-16 23:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16963245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Officialacejolras/pseuds/thebolderthing
Summary: Grantaire's college years blurred together. With a major he could have cared less about and failure after failure after graduation, he hit rock bottom. At the drop of a hat he disappeared off the map; no phone, no address, no goodbye. Three years later he returns to rainy Seattle with a new perspective and a new appreciation for the world around him.In which Grantaire finally learns to give himself the love he deserves, all the while old feelings stir quietly, waiting…Alternately titled: Grantaire was the only miracle he ever needed, but his friends still care for him dearly. Or in the case of Enjolras, a little more than just care.





	1. Welcome Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have not written fanfiction for at least 5 years, nor do I write on the regular basis. However, after years of not thinking about Les Misérables, I got pulled back down into it during finals week and now that it's over I am itching to create. 
> 
> Spanish is used sparingly throughout this chapter. There are translations in the Notes at the bottom of the page. Please excuse any syntax or grammatical errors; Spanish is my second language, not my first.
> 
> Edit 12/17/18: Did some minor edits after noticing formatting issues, as well as other general grammar inconsistencies.

It had been years since Grantaire had seen cold rain pour over Seattle sidewalks. He let himself stand in it, water absorbing into his cardigan and chilling his skin. His socks were soaked and his pants stuck to his legs, but nothing bothered him right now. He was never the biggest fan of rain in his youth, but as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder. If it were not for the bus quickly approaching to take him to his apartment, he would probably never leave. Once he reached his apartment, bare with the exception of a blow-up mattress and a suitcase, he stripped down and changed into sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. He put the tea kettle on and poured himself a hot cup of tea, taking in the earthy aroma that wafted up from the liquid. His thoughts drifted to all that had transpired since he left this city three years ago, wondering if returning was the right decision. In the quietness of the room, he could hear the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the earth, and Grantaire decided it was for the best.

So much had changed in the last couple of years. He barely graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Engineering (which wasn’t even his choice which made it all even worse) and soon after spiraled into a deep, dark depression. He came to realize what he had known in the back of his mind the entire time, which was that he was not cut out to be an engineer. Math just did not work with his mind and he only skated by in his classes because he always turned in his homework. In other fields he might have skipped homework all the time, but the intense pressure from his family to provide for them with a higher-end job forced him to wade through class after class, failure after failure. When he experienced the same repeated failure trying to become an engineer after college, he could not take it anymore. He needed to get away from his problems while still fulfilling his role as the only child in a family of immigrants.

Within two weeks, Grantaire disappeared from his life in the U.S. and returned to the place of his childhood-- México. He had dual citizenship but due to travel costs, he only had the chance to visit every couple of years. However, this time he planned to stay quite a bit longer. He deleted his social media, canceled his cell phone plan, erased every single piece of his identity outside of Oaxaca. He moved in with his grandmother, and consequently his aunt, uncle, and three of his cousins as well. For the first time in a very, very, very long time, he found peace.

Grantaire had been closer with his grandmother than any other family member since he was a child. She always had a way with words that both comforted him but also encouraged growth. She was the one to teach him how to cook, how to dance, how to create. She taught him which plants to gather from and to take only what he needed, and she taught him how to love others. His relationship with his parents had always been shaky, but his _abuela_? He could be around her for days on end, happy as a lark.

When he showed up on her doorstep unexpected, pale and trembling with a suitcase in hand, she did not ask any questions. Instead, she welcomed him in loving arms and put him to work. He made dinner for the family, cleaned the house, watched over his little cousins to make sure they did not get up to _too_ much trouble. His tongue welcomed Spanish, a language almost lost on him thanks to the pressures of university and the need to “assimilate” (he has special words for those who thought he should abandon his culture in favor of the “American Dream”; _vete al infierno pinche pendejo_ is only the tip of the iceberg of how he feels about those who want him to feel like a second-class citizen for just being Latino.)

He got a job in the city after a couple of weeks, working in the early morning so by the time afternoon came around he would be able to be home to help out. Months passed by like a flash, and Grantaire found himself healthier, happier, kinder. So many qualities that he had suppressed due to severe depression were slowly but surely coming back into the light. Even on days everything haunted him and he found himself nursing a bottle of wine his grandmother would come in and instead of shaming him, loving him. She sat down with him and told him stories of when she was young and how much trouble she would get into. She talked with him about her mistakes, honesty and wisdom filling the room every time she spoke. She lead by example, and soon enough started to address the roots of issues Grantaire had tried so hard to bury. Vulnerability was key in their relationship. Through this vulnerability there came a deep, impenetrable and unconditional love, in which Grantaire loved her, and she loved him.

After the first year, Grantaire found himself sober and walking lighter in the world. After the second, he was dancing, laughing, creating. In a space that used to be so dark came light, and his rough edges started to smooth out. He would stay up late talking with his grandmother, his aunt and uncle, his younger cousins. He would talk about the infiniteness of the universe and about the nature of humanity. He started reading like no tomorrow, getting caught up in Isabel Allende and Gabriel García Márquez. By the time the third year came around, he found a softness in himself. A gentle beginning of self-love. An understanding that he did not deserve what had happened to him and that it was not his fault. A reminder that he should put time and care into himself because he is just as important as those around him. These beliefs would come in time, and although he did not fully believe them all of the time, just having an inkling of self-worth changed his outlook dramatically.

As the third year in México came to a close, Grantaire knew he had to return to Washington. As much as he loved his family and wanted to stay with them forever, he knew it was not quite time to settle down permanently. There were tears and hugs and forehead kisses, but when his grandmother hugged him one last time and told him that she was proud of him, Grantaire’s heart felt incredibly full.

When Grantaire finally made it to Seattle, he felt out of place. In the time that he had left to the time he returned, he stopped becoming a figure in the background and started becoming someone in the foreground. He found a small studio apartment on Capitol Hill for a good deal, and afterward for the next few weeks he spent time relearning the in’s and out’s of the Seattle streets. He remembered why he hated Starbucks very quickly, too. Nothing compared to Café de Olla, but there was something wrong about the flavors of the chain coffee shop.

After some time taking the city in and breathing in the fresh Pacific Northwest air, Grantaire found a place a bit more to his liking-- Milagros Pequeños. It was a small café tucked into the corner and not very noticeable from the outside. However, when Grantaire came inside, his body instantly relaxed. A Latino-owned coffee house? His resumé was on the counter before he could blink. And that was where he found himself most days, if not at the library or the neighborhood dance studio. Life was good, and even if he found himself wondering what the purpose of being here was, he continued on.

He was running the café solo one rainy Tuesday morning when he was reminded of why he had left in the first place. It was 10 o’clock and it was packed, so he did not even raise his head to look over when the door opened. One Mexican mocha for the teenage girl in blue, one quad shot espresso for the college student rushing out the door the second the drink is in his hand. Cleaning off the espresso machine, Grantaire asked for the order for the next person in line, not making eye contact with the customer.

“Can I get a 16oz vanilla latte to go? With an extra shot of espresso, please.”

 _That voice sounds familiar, how can it sound familiar--_ Grantaire wrote down the order on a paper to-go cup, replying, “That’ll be $3.75, with cash or card?” He looked up, making direct contact with the customer, and almost dropped the cup.

“Car--,” the man dragged the syllables out, his eyes lit with sudden recognition. “Grantaire?” It was less of a question and more of disbelief.

“It’s been a while, Enjolras.” Grantaire was not sure how he managed to get words to come out of his mouth; it had been so long since he had seen Enjolras. He had thought that he and the others would have run first thing out of Seattle after graduation; they all had so much potential, and Enjolras alone could have easily flown across the country and become some famous activist. He had dismissed the notion that the others could have still been in Seattle when he came back because he thought they had gone off to better, grander things. Now, he was kicking himself for not thinking otherwise.

A pause. “You look well,” Enjolras is looking at him, the corners of his lips ever-so-slightly upturned.

They made eye contact, and Grantaire is hit with how _human_ Enjolras looks. Not that he was ever not human, but in his college days Grantaire had always thought of Enjolras as some sort of Greek God, a marble statue unable to feel anything but righteous anger. Enjolras now, although still sculpted from marble (feelings Grantaire does _not_ want to dig up), looked exhausted. He was wearing huge glasses that were in part probably supposed to hide the dark eye bags under Enjolras’s eyes but it looked like disguising them would be a lost cause. Fatigue is evident through everything from the state of Enjolras’s hair, tied up in a bun of messy, blonde curls, to his posture: hunched slightly over, off-balance, screaming _I haven’t slept in 3 days_. This appearance directly conflicted his outfit-- A blazer, button-up and tie underneath, slacks and oxford shoes. There were a million questions just waiting to be asked with this observation alone, but Grantaire is distracted with a loud clearing of the throat from an older woman behind Enjolras. She kept looking back and forth from the register to the clock, and Grantaire knew he had better hurry up if he did not want a call to his supervisor. Enjolras quickly pulled out his debit card-- looking almost embarrassed?-- and Grantaire quickly took the order of the woman behind him before making the two’s drinks.

In a mix of adrenaline and courage, Grantaire wrote his (new, he had not had a phone since the last time he had been in the States) phone number on Enjolras’s cup. Unfortunately, he did not have time to gauge his reaction; instead, there are another three impatient customers waiting for their own specially-ordered cup of fancy espresso. He missed the genuine smile that reached Enjolras’s lips, all the while hoping he had just made the right decision.

When he got off of work at the end of the day and saw one new text message from an unknown number, he let out a sigh of relief that he did not know he had been holding. The text only read this: _thursday night @8PM we’re having a meeting at the musain_. Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, letting out a laugh-- Of anxiety? Of exhaustion? Of excitement? He was not sure.

Thursday came sooner than he realized, but he found himself stuck on the closing shift. He tried to get it switched, but one of his coworkers was going to go visit family, and Grantaire was not going to go and force them to stay. Milagros Pequeños technically closed at 8, and although the Musain was not too far away, an elderly man refused to leave, claiming he wanted to finish his coffee first. Five minutes went by, then ten. Grantaire cleaned all that he could while he waited for the lingering customer, masking his annoyance at the man’s entitlement. Eventually, Grantaire had enough, fully done with all of the cleaning besides the man’s table. He more or less pushed him out, threatening to ban him from coming in again if he still actively refused to leave. He then hastily finished washing off the man’s table and locked the café up.

By the time everything was good and done, it was 8:25. Previous thoughts about changing into a more casual outfit were discarded-- he was _late_. He ran the 7 blocks it took to arrive at the Musain without breaking out in anything more than a light sweat; since visiting his relatives, dancing and running became a daily routine, replacing his late-night habits with ones that would raise endorphins, not lower them. And there he was, 8:35 and standing in front of the café that he spent so many of his college nights in. A hesitation. _What if everything isn’t like it used to be before? What if nothing works, and no one fits in with him anymore like they used to?_ A deep breath. _Si, puedo hacerlo, estoy bien y estaré bien_. He opened the door, hearing loud chatter throughout the café. A deep, bellowing laugh-- Bahorel.

He suddenly realized how long it had been since he had spoken to any of them. Three years since he took off without much more than an ‘I have to leave.’ Not even a true goodbye. He had shut off his phone, left his apartment, deleted his social media-- even his email was left abandoned. Guilt started to creep up to his throat, and he thought about leaving. Escaping. Turning around, pretending he came in on accident. But instead, loud and demanding footsteps came behind him, and before he knew it he was being pulled in the opposite direction while a fist made contact with his cheek. He didn’t even have to open his eyes to know who the person standing in front of him was-- He would recognize Éponine’s punches anywhere.

“Hey, Éponine. Long time no see.”

Her eyes could have put even the largest of fires to shame. Grantaire knew what furious Éponine looked like, but this? He might as well start praying to every deity out there to maybe have an extra ten minutes before he met his potential maker.

“How _dare_ you drop off the face of the planet for three goddamn years, R?! I tried looking for you everywhere, asking everyone we knew, but it was like you completely disappeared! No explanation, no note, no nothing! When you said you had to leave, I thought you meant the room, not wherever the fuck you went!” A pause, emotion building in her throat. “I thought you were dead!”

She’s angry and _loud_ , and suddenly Grantaire took notice how quiet the café became. He found himself at a loss for words, his head swimming with a combination of dizziness from the punch and the years of memories he had tried so hard to forget coming back to him. There was so much hurt and trauma that he had experienced in college that he had forgotten the good-- Granted, it was not like there were huge amounts of good on a silver platter, but the good he did have before was _important_. He swallowed nervously, his tongue sitting heavy in his mouth, before making direct eye contact with the whirlwind of Éponine and quietly spoke, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Hot, angry tears spilled down her cheeks in a way that the proud ‘Ponine Grantaire knew would have never allowed in front of others except when they were drunk and alone. This was different. He was not sure if it was good different or bad different-- just _different_. Grantaire was lost in her emotion, allowing himself to feel and understand it as it lingered, before being pulled into a tight embrace.

“I thought you were dead, or out on the street, or, or--” she rambles, her voice choked up in the crook of his neck. “And Cosette told me not to think that way because if anyone were to survive against all odds, it would be you but,” she paused, words fumbling as she eventually got out, “I was the last one to see you. And I wasn’t sure.”

 _Fuck_ , Grantaire was going to start crying. He didn’t come here to cry and regret the last couple of years, but if anyone could reduce him to tears, it would be Éponine. He ultimately decided to speak in the only way his tongue would not betray him-- in their shared language, the only Spanish speakers in their group of friends (Marius knew so many languages, but for whatever reason, Spanish is not one of them. Grantaire decided a while back that he did not care and that it was better that Éponine and he could speak in a more private way without having to leave the room. Most of it was her swearing at him for various reasons, but nonetheless, it was nice to have someone to talk to.)

"Te extrañé también, mi querida... No tengo las palabras ahora mismo para expresar mis sentimientos, pero..." A pause. His forehead rested against hers, the two of them teary-eyed with so many unspoken questions. Not all family is related by blood. "Pero creo que, quizás para el primer tiempo, estoy contento con la vida-- En los últimos tres años pasaba mucho tiempo con mi familia en México y… Pués, en palabras más simples, estoy feliz. Más o menos."

Eponine looked at him now, taking a step back and seeing him properly. Grantaire looked, for possibly the first time in his life, _good_. Not to say that he was never beautiful or wonderful or just generally good, but this Grantaire was different somehow. He was the same Grantaire that she had always known and loved since they were children, but there was a warmth to him that she could have sworn she had not seen since he was 16. He looked _healthy_ and _balanced_ and all of what Eponine had always wanted him to become. His hair was lush and dark brown curls dance down to his shoulders. His skin looked almost golden in the light, freckles dusting his cheeks. He looked like he was actually eating properly and getting out into the world and generally enjoying life. There were three years of dead silence, yes, but he looked… He looked… The word was at the tip of her tongue: _Loved_. He looked loved, by both others and also, even if just slightly, himself.

Éponine opened her mouth to say more, to ask more, but then realized that they were completely surrounded. Grantaire looked up, noticing her silence, and then very quickly was tackled by more bodies than he can count. There were forehead kisses and hard hand-claps on the back and tears and _warmth_. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, then there was Feuilly and Jehan and Bahorel, who were quickly followed by Cosette and Marius and Courfeyrac. Even Combeferre came up and clapped his hand onto Grantaire’s shoulder. “We missed you,” he said, meeting Grantaire’s eyes with genuine affection and love.

Enjolras is last. His eyes are filled with too many emotions to pinpoint and analyze, but Grantaire cannot miss how they soften as he approached him. There was almost a nervousness to him, but after a moment he brought his arms around Grantaire and pulled him in for a gentle hug. “Welcome home,” he near-whispered, loud enough for only Grantaire and himself to hear. Breathing for Grantaire suddenly became difficult.

Enjolras pulled away with one last tender touch on the shoulder and Grantaire watched as 12 pairs of eyes focus their attention on him and him alone. He did not realize he was full-on sobbing until Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta pulled him into their arms once again. Musichetta gently rubbed his back up and down as he cried, while Bossuet took his hands, holding them with care and stroking them with his thumbs lightly. Grantaire did not know how or when Joly procured a tissue box, but his face was suddenly peppered with the dabbing of tissues to wipe away his tears. Grantaire was loved fully and completely, and for the first time, his mind did not immediately reject the sentiment that he could be cared for outside of family.

It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanish translations:
> 
> Abuela -- Grandmother
> 
> Vete al infierno pinche pendejo -- Go to hell you fucking asshole 
> 
> Milagros Pequeños -- Small Miracles
> 
> Si, puedo hacerlo, estoy bien y estaré bien. -- Yes, I can do it, I am fine and I will be fine.
> 
> Te extrañé también, mi querida... No tengo las palabras ahora mismo para expresar mis sentimientos, pero... -- I missed you too, my dear... I do not have the words right now to express my feelings, but...
> 
> Pero creo que, quizás para el primer tiempo, estoy contento con la vida-- En los últimos tres años pasaba mucho tiempo con mi familia en México y… Pués, en palabras más simples, estoy feliz. Más o menos. -- But I believe that, maybe for the first time, I am content with life. In the last three years I have spent a lot of time with my family in Mexico and... Well, in more simpler terms, I'm happy. More or less.


	2. Something Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A charming young man, capable of being terrible. A tired law school graduate, capable of drinking a pot of coffee in one sitting. A man that tries to take on the world, but is not capable of doing it alone.
> 
> A glimpse into the mind of Enjolras.

Enjolras was exhausted. His room was scattered with piles of paperwork, news articles, and pens that were all almost out of ink; not a single spot of carpet was left uncovered. Enjolras had never been the cleanest of people, but this was pushing even his limits. His mind felt like it was in a hundred places at once; court cases running through his brain 24/7, committing to memory every single influential piece of legislature he could. He was a perfectionist in all that he did, not allowing a second to go by wasted. He graduated from the University of Washington’s law school with flying colors, passed his bar exam, and even managed to get a job at a local nonprofit organization as a consultant attorney for civil rights cases. He should be excited for all that was to come ahead. He _was_ excited. However, as calm as he tried to appear on the surface, his doubt and anxiety poisoned his passion. He had spent many a night wide awake, plagued with fears of failure, of falling just short of influential. His undergraduate years were filled with hope, determination, a fire that only grew the more that he learned. Law school, however, took a greater toll. Being the only person of color in the room, being one of the very few queer people in the room-- What had initially been inspiring became frustrating. Not to say that he didn’t still have that passion that started all of this, but he could only try to convince so many white people that he had the right to exist before wearing himself thin.

He stared up at the blank white ceiling above him, doubt consuming his thoughts. What if after all of this he doesn’t make a difference? What if all this work is for nothing? Would anyone listen to him, or would he be another voiceless minority, lost in favor of a system that only appeals to white supremacy and privilege? He could yell and protest as loud as he was able, but would anyone even be there to hear him speak? Would anyone rally with him, or when it mattered most would he be left for dead, silence being his only companion?

His train of thought was interrupted by a sudden loud blaring of music from the other side of his room.

_“IF LOOKS COULD KILL, YOU’D BE LYING ON THE FLOOR, YOU’D BE BEGGING ME PLEASE, PLEASE BABY DON’T HURT ME NO MORE---”_

That was the _last_ time Enjolras was letting Courfeyrac ‘borrow’ his phone. Irritated and silently wishing for his best friend’s demise, Enjolras picked up his phone, buried beneath a small mountain of clothing on the floor. His lock screen was filled with various texts, and now a missed call: Joly.

**joly** : [ hey enjolras question for you ]

**joly** : [ enjolras??? ]

**joly** : [ enjolras!!!! ]

**joly** : [ have you eaten??? ]

**joly** : [ it is 6 pm if you haven’t eaten i am PERSONALLY going to come over and force feed you bossuet’s pasta he made earlier ] 

The missed phone call notification interrupts the flow of messages.

**joly** : [ ...actually nvm nvm nvm bad idea it looks like bossuet actually might have food poisoning and i might have to take him in to go get seen asap ]

**joly** : [ how can you “accidentally” not check the expiration date on meat?! if he gets e-coli i’m making every single one of you take a cooking and health class because this? is not acceptable!!!! ]

**joly** : [ anyways tldr; enjolras love u combeferre swang by and grabbed u food that i made and not bossuet so please eat!!! hope u like phở gà ] 

Joly always seemed to have a sixth sense when Enjolras wasn’t feeling well. Over the last couple of years the two grew closer, although not nearly as close as Joly and Combeferre. When the two of them teamed up they became the Ultimate Mom Duo and absolutely no one was safe. _Especially_ Enjolras.

Enjolras sighed, a small smile on his lips as he texted Joly back.

**enjolras** : [ thank you joly, i really appreciate it. ]

He didn’t know what he would do without his friends. Even though they were a pain in the ass a lot of the time (especially now that Courfeyrac has been going through an intense ‘80s phase and blasting _Maniac_ every time the opportunity presented itself), he loved each and every one of them dearly. Rubbing his eyes and pulling his tight blonde curls into a messy bun of sorts, he made his way outside of the Stress Cave and into the Real World.

Enjolras softly padded out into the kitchen, a loose red t-shirt draping down his straight frame while his sweatpants dragged against the white tile. He ran on autopilot as he measured out coffee grounds and poured them into the reusable coffee filter, making sure everything was in place and ready to go before pressing the ‘on’ button. Enjolras took the time to appreciate the aroma of freshly brewed coffee before pouring it into a red ceramic mug, an aroma that was surely tainted after he stirred in an unnecessarily large amount of sugar and creamer. The sound of keys jingling against the door filled the apartment just as he finished preparing his drink, and he quickly hid any physical evidence of exactly how much sweet he had put in it-- Although from the look of the pale cream color of his caffeine concoction… It was a futile attempt.

“You’re awake.” The corners of Combeferre’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, slender fingers placing keys onto the designated hook near the door. Not far behind him was Courfeyrac, holding up a large pot above his head with a grin from ear-to-ear.

“Guess who got us food! I mean, we had to hear Bossuet puke his guts out for the 5 minutes we were there so it was kinda gross, but totally worth it!” Courfeyrac set the pot down on the table before grabbing three large bowls out of the kitchen cabinets. He ladled the dish equally into all three of the bowls, taking a pair of chopsticks out from a drawer and slurping up hot noodles into his mouth. “You know, Joly’s homemade cooking has ruined all Vietnamese take-out restaurants for me. Once you’ve had it authentically you can never go back! I wish I could repay him with something traditional from home but I think my mother would rather die than have me mess up her moqueca...” Courfeyrac wasn’t the worst cook of the trio per se, but it was hard to get much worse than Enjolras.

“You want to know what’s ruined for me?” Enjolras replied, eyes sharp and focused on Courfeyrac, ready to strike at any moment. “Ringtones. Tell me why you thought that _If Looks Could Kill_ was a great idea, because if you don’t have a good enough excuse, I _will_ find a way to kill you in your sleep.”

Enjolras’s iciness and harsh words didn’t even phase Courfeyrac, who pulled out two other pairs of chopsticks and tossed them at Combeferre and him. “You love me too much to kill me, and even if you didn’t, you love Ferre too much to let his hot-ass boyfriend perish by your hand.” Combeferre gave Enjolras a nod, betraying him in an instant. So much for Courfeyrac’s long and painful death. “And as far as the song goes,” Courfeyrac continued, “I think it’s perfect-- you’re really trying to live up to its message even now, Enj.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, turning back to his coffee-flavored milk and ignoring the shit-eating grin that was daring to consume all of Courfeyrac’s face, dimples prominent in his bronze, freckled skin. Combeferre pretended like he was not actually finding the conversation funny, but his eyes easily gave away his amusement at the two’s melodramatics.

“Also, speaking of hot-asses in the general vicinity, can we talk about Gran-fucking-taire!” Enjolras abruptly choked on his almost-coffee, breaking out into a slight coughing fit, refusing to acknowledge Courfeyrac’s laughter and Combeferre’s all-knowing look. “And here I had always thought the man was drop-dead gorgeous but now? Have you _seen_ his biceps? None of the single ladies, gents, or dearly esteemed gender-defying immortals will be able to keep their eyes off of him! Fuck, even aliens could come down to Earth right now, see Grantaire, and decide to turn around because they wouldn’t know what to do with that much beautiful in one place.”

There was a moment of silence, Combeferre biting back laughter while Enjolras pointedly avoided eye contact with either of them. A tinge of pink colored the warm sepia of Enjolras’s cheeks, the man slightly flustered from either a) choking on his 10% coffee 90% milk and sugar, b) acknowledging Grantaire’s newfound glow, or c) all of the above.

“I suppose he does look well,” Enjolras finally said, taking a long sip of his drink.

Grantaire… Thinking about the man opened a Pandora’s Box in Enjolras’s mind that he would have rather kept shut tight. When he had left with no goodbye all those years ago, everything had felt _wrong_. The meetings at the Musain felt off with Enjolras simply talking and talking, and he found himself waiting for someone to break the silence from the back of the room. His gaze subconsciously would waver in that corner, as if Grantaire was going to arrive eventually and give Enjolras something to argue about. In the time that Enjolras had known Grantaire, he had said awful, cruel things. He was tactless and harsh with words, a charming man capable of being terrible if he thought he was in the right. Time had given him plenty to regret, his own words becoming his greatest enemy, unable to make things right while also not able to let things lie as they were.

During the first few months of Grantaire’s absence, Éponine had blamed him at least partially, even if she didn’t voice it. She stopped going to the meetings, only coming back because of Cosette’s insistence. That didn’t stop her from glaring at him whenever the occasion came up, and he knew Cosette was the only thing stopping Éponine from giving Enjolras a real piece of her mind. However, regardless of how much she disliked him, Enjolras highly admired Éponine. She was incredibly strong in all possible aspects and had a fire in her unparalleled by most. Yet she was extraordinarily gentle at the same time-- He didn’t have to know her story to know the significance of the tenderness she expressed when passing time with Gavroche or Cosette. As the years came and went, he watched as Éponine grew to become the best self she could be, the kind of determined and brave that was hard to replicate.

While she grew, however, Enjolras found himself falling. It was slow at first. It crept up on him in the middle of the night, eating at his mind until he looked into the mirror and barely recognized himself. Enjolras was never good at coping; he would throw himself into his work every time he felt anything but what he deemed necessary. This unhealthy dedication made him nearly drop out of law school, his passion buried under anxiety, depression, and doubt, suffocating him in every waking moment. It hit him the hardest during the middle of his second year in law school, where he was surviving on coffee and coffee alone. Combeferre had unofficially moved out for a couple of months to stay with Courfeyrac in his empty apartment across town, and Enjolras had faked having it together enough that it was only after a spontaneous visit that Combeferre realized it would be best for him to move back in, Courfeyrac with him. Empty coffee cups and energy drinks were all over the apartment, the fridge was empty sans a loaf of wheat bread, and Enjolras looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. Combeferre and Courfeyrac both took an emergency week off of work, as well as contacted Enjolras’s professors and informed them that due to medical reasons Enjolras would be absent for the week. It was for the best, no matter how many times Enjolras told them he didn’t need to take a break.

Enjolras didn’t remember most of the first day or two that Combeferre and Courfeyrac came in to help out, too busy going in and out of mandated sleep to recognize what was happening. He does, however, remember Joly arriving on the third day and lecturing for hours upon hours as to how Enjolras had to take care of himself and how it was a miracle he hadn’t had a heart attack from how much caffeine was in his system. By the fourth day, all of their friends were packed in his small apartment, along with a cake that was adorned with roses made of icing and cursive, flowery lettering reading _this is an intervention_. There was even a small grave and skull made of fondant atop the cake, instantly giving away the cake maker-- Jehan had given him a wide smile, their body language expressing love but their eyes threatening Enjolras to try this again _one more time_ and see what happens. In a way, Jehan was much more frightening than any of the others when they wanted to be.

As embarrassing as it had been for Enjolras to admit he needed help, he was grateful to have the love and support of his friends, although he could not have predicted how far they would go after the initial incident in making sure he was doing alright. Joly’s consistent texts asking if Enjolras had eaten in the last 24 hours as well as Courfeyrac frequently taking Enjolras out to do things “for the sake of enjoyment, Enjolras, you need to live a little!” were not what Enjolras had expected, but he also couldn’t help but soften at the edges with affection for his friends. This love is what had gotten him through law school and out doing what he loved to do, and in turn, he loved them back and made sure to do all that he could to better the lives of his friends as well. After all, he wasn’t the only one struggling-- He always found time to argue and advocate and make a scene when he realized his loved ones needed it, whether it be during Joly’s doctor appointments or when Feuilly was getting taken advantage of in the workplace.

Combeferre’s voice broke Enjolras’s train of thought, snapping him back into reality. “As much as I would like to know what’s going on in the world of Enjolras, we should really discuss the topic of next Thursday’s meeting. We didn’t get too into it with the surprise arrival of Grantaire, but I think we should still try to build off of it. After all, racism in the climate change movement is an incredibly relevant topic right now and I believe that we should start thinking of ways to address it in the community at large. I have already started to compile a list of so-called ‘eco-friendly’ foods and brands that directly are linked to the exploitation of people of color globally.”

Enjolras nodded, his mind already constructing arguments and ideas as the seconds went by. He grabbed his laptop off of the coffee table and started to write up his proposals for the group, eyes narrowing as he wrote, checking for any weak spots in his argument that he could defend. After all, if Grantaire was going to keep coming back to the Musain, he needed to make sure he could counter any and every opposing viewpoint. In a way, having him back made Enjolras’s passion greater, excited for a challenge that wouldn’t drain him but instead inspire him. An innate desire to prove himself took over his mind, determined to create an argument even the cynic could get behind. After all, if Grantaire could believe in the cause, anyone could.


End file.
